


The Sensational Rocket

by PyrrhaIphis



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: AU, Comfort, Discussion of Homophobia, Grief/Mourning, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-04 11:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18603625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyrrhaIphis/pseuds/PyrrhaIphis
Summary: A brief AU that asks the question "What if Brian really was killed on stage?"  Or rather, "How would it affect the morning after conversation between Curt and Arthur a year later if Brian had been killed rather than faking his own death?"I decided not to mark it "Major Character Death" since the death happens before the story actually starts, and it's the core of the summary.





	The Sensational Rocket

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please let me know if I've included any inappropriate Americanisms so I can fix them!

> I knew I should create a sensation, gasped the Rocket, and he went out.
> 
> -Brian Slade

 

**WEST HARBOUR, Westshire**.  Late last night, Lord Henry Talmadge, Earl of Westshire, was arrested at his manor for the murder of popular singer Brian Slade on the fifth of February last.  Forensic experts had several weeks earlier matched the bullet with a gun belonging to Lord Henry’s late son, but only on obtaining the testimony of several individuals close to the earl could they determine that he himself may have been responsible for the crime.

            Lord Henry’s official statement to the press and well-wishers at the time of his son's death claimed that it was due to illness, but the police have learned that nineteen year old Chester Talmadge took his own life following a severe beratement—and possibly a beating—from his father over his sexual proclivities.  According to the testimony provided by numerous witnesses, the murder weapon had been one of many love gifts given by an American from Texas, who had met the young Talmadge at university in London.  Over the course of several months, the two young men had been engaged in a very intimate sexual relationship.  When Lord Henry discovered that his son was—as the earl himself put it—“a fairy,” he withdrew his son from university, banned the American from the family’s estates, and set about correcting what he saw as his son’s newly acquired personality flaw.  According to the servants, this correction, along with the separation from his lover, was too much for the fragile youth, and he took his own life.  However, according to the boy’s mother, he died of the wounds his father had inflicted upon him.  Investigating her claims will require exhuming the boy’s body, and a consensus has not yet been reached as to whether that is warranted for this case.

            Faced with the loss of his son, Lord Henry became crazed, according to those nearest to him.  In his desperation to avoid blaming himself, he fixed upon the boy’s favourite singer, the flamboyantly bisexual Slade.  Lord Henry insists that it was Slade’s influence that caused his son to sully himself with another man.  It is the earl’s claim that he had to kill Slade to prevent other young men from being so tainted by the androgynous singer’s influence.                                                      18 March, 1974

 

***

 

            The view from the top of the Rainbow Club was nothing special, especially in the gray light of a February morning, but to Arthur Stuart it was the most spectacular thing he had ever seen, because he was seeing it with Curt Wild.  Twenty-four hours ago, he would never have imagined this could have happened.  Well, precisely twenty-four hours ago, he’d been asleep, but when he woke up yesterday morning, both excited about and dreading the coming memorial concert, Arthur’s mind had produced no hopes of beautiful sex beneath the stars.  He had known Curt was going to be there, of course, but he hadn’t understood just how much more powerfully mesmerising Curt was in person than he was in photographs and film clips.

            Curt was leaning his head and shoulders over the low wall at the edge of the roof, watching the ashes from his cigarette float downward, mingling with the light, powdery snow that was falling.  There was something innocent, almost childlike about it, and yet it gave off no sense of delight.  After a few minutes, Curt extinguished his cigarette in a niche on the wall, then turned to look at Arthur.  “Are you cold?” he asked.

            Arthur smiled and shook his head.  Really, he ought to be; it was below freezing, and he hadn’t a stitch on.  But he felt warmed from within.  He liked to think it was because of their earlier love-making, but some drab, cerebral part of him said it was probably the peyote’s last hurrah before wearing off.  “Are you?”

            Curt shrugged.  “I don’t notice the cold until it gets to the point where your spit freezes before it can hit the ground.”

            Arthur laughed.  He hadn't meant anything by it, but Curt seemed to take it as expressing doubt in his word, because he got an annoyed look on his face before letting out a defensive exclamation:

            “Hey, we’re toughened against cold weather where I come from.  It’s the fucking heat I can’t stand.  We had to cancel my appearance at a concert in Rome ‘cause I had heat stroke.  That sucked.”

            Imagine being in Rome!  Arthur still hadn’t been further south than London.  “I’m sure it was worse for the people who had tickets to the show.”

            “I wasn’t the one they wanted to see,” Curt sighed, shoving away from the wall and stalking over to where Arthur had left his trousers last night.  “Put these back on,” he said, tossing them to Arthur.  “I don’t want to have to take you to the hospital with frostbite on your dick.”

            Arthur couldn’t repress an unfortunate laugh that was so quiet as to approach a giggle; it wasn't so much at the sentiment or the crass way it was phrased, but at the brusqueness that seemed to him to be an exterior hiding a tender concern.  By the time he’d gotten his trousers back on, Curt was sitting down on that grotty old mattress again.  Arthur joined him, sliding up close beside him and tentatively setting one hand on the silver leather encasing Curt’s lower limbs.  “Are you okay?” he asked, even though it was a stupid question.  Of course Curt wasn’t okay…

            Curt sighed sadly, and leaned his head back against the massive chimney behind their backs.  “I don’t…I’ve spent most of the last year…trying to believe it wasn’t true.  That… _somehow_ …he was coming back.”  He reached up one black-nailed hand to cover his whole face.  “I knew he wasn’t, but…”

            If Arthur had known the perfect thing to say to make him feel better, he would have said it without a moment’s hesitation.  But since he didn’t know, he wasn’t sure what he should say—what he even _could_ say.  He couldn’t very well have offered to take Brian’s place.  What did he have to offer to make up for the loss of such a majestic person?  All he could think to do was to lean in closer, offering what little physical comfort he could.

            “If Jack hadn’t been with me…”

            “Maybe—” Arthur started, then stopped immediately.  Telling Curt to think about something else would come off as insulting or patronising.  “I mean…um…if there’s…if there’s anything I can do—to help!—I, uh, I will.  Anything at all.  Really.  I—”

            Curt lowered his hand away from his face so quickly that Arthur stopped almost midword, terrified that he’d said the wrong thing and made him angry.  But Curt had a sad smile on his face as he looked over at Arthur.  “There’s nothing anyone can do,” Curt told him.  “But thanks.”  Gently, he tousled Arthur’s hair as if he was still a child.  He probably _seemed_ like a child to someone who had seen and done as much as Curt had.

            They fell into a silence then, sitting there side by side, staring up at the thin, gray clouds and the tiny white flakes falling from them.  There was a serene silence everywhere, as if the city was holding its breath, waiting for them to speak again.

            By the time Curt finally broke their silence, the city was no longer so quiet; Arthur could hear traffic down below, humming along the streets without a care in the world.  “How did you find out?” Curt asked.  “What did it feel like for someone who was just a fan?”

            Arthur sighed sadly.  “Actually, I was there.  Right down front.”  He shook his head.  “It was so bewilderin’ that it was hard to feel anything about it at first.  It didn’t really sink in until I was talkin’ to the police about it.”

            “Why did they want to talk to you?” Curt asked.  “They can’t have thought _you_ were a suspect!” he added, with a laugh.

            “I saw him.  Lord Henry.  Saw him take up his position and pull the trigger.”  Arthur looked down at his hands.  They had seemed normal hands until that day, but for the last year they had seemed clumsy and useless, always getting in the way but unable to accomplish anything.  “They told me I might ‘ave to testify in court.  That was a terrifyin’ idea…”

            “I wish you _had_ gotten to testify,” Curt snarled.

            “Yeah.”  Lord Henry had hired such top notch barristers that they’d been able to have him declared unfit to stand trial, so that he was remanded to a mental institution instead of being sent to jail.  “His ex-wife’s tryin’ to ‘ave him put on trial for murderin’ their son, though,” Arthur pointed out.  “Even if he’s mental now, he wouldn’t ‘ave been before he killed his own son, so—”

            “So he still can’t be put on trial if he’s crazy _now_ , even if he was still sane when he committed the crime,” Curt said.  “Someone ought to just kill the fucker before he can hurt anyone else.”

            Arthur nodded, but he wasn’t sure what to say.

            “I know that won’t bring Brian back,” Curt went on, “but at least then he’d be avenged.”

            What was Arthur supposed to say to that?  He wanted to scream “Stop dwelling on Brian!  Think about me instead!” but he could never say anything so heartless.  Curt was suffering, and Arthur would have given anything to know the magic words that would cure his ailment.  Obviously just offering himself up for Curt’s pleasure wasn’t nearly enough, but he didn’t have anything else to offer.

            After another minute or two of silence, Curt started trembling, the shaking slowly getting stronger and stronger until he slammed his fist into his thigh.  “Why _Brian_?  Why would he kill someone who never did anything but bring joy to millions of people?!”

            “Curt…”  What was Arthur supposed to say now?  He knew very well why Brian.  Everyone knew that.  Arthur’s father had probably been thrilled by the news Brian had been killed.  Like Lord Henry, he probably blamed Brian for his son’s natural desires, because it was easier to blame a stranger than to blame one’s own flesh and blood, easier to assume their children had been seduced away from the path of light than to acknowledge that the path of light was wider than they understood.  How many boys were there in the world who, like Arthur, had come to accept themselves because they had Brian and Curt’s example to inspire them?  How many parents had reacted the way Arthur’s father had?  How many had wanted to react the way Lord Henry had?

            “If only I’d been there, maybe…maybe I could have…”

            “Curt, if you’d been there, he’d probably ‘ave shot you, too,” Arthur said, taking Curt’s hand in his own.  “You know that, don’t you?”

            “At least then I wouldn’t have to live with this!” Curt shouted, though it turned into more of a wail as it went on.  “We…I didn’t get to say a real goodbye…”  He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly that it looked like he wanted to squeeze his whole _face_ shut.  “We were still fighting…”  He shook his head, but the motion did nothing to hide the tears dripping down his cheeks.  “I thought he’d follow me…I thought…I didn’t want it to end at all, but especially not like that!”

            “No one wanted it to end,” Arthur assured him.  “We all wanted to see the two of you stay together forever.”

            Curt just sat there shaking for a moment or two, then broke down into true sobs.  Arthur pulled him close, and Curt—whether consciously or from some deep instinct hidden within everyone—turned towards him, leaning into the embrace, lowering his head onto Arthur’s shoulder.  Standing, Curt seemed so big and impressive—the boots and the hair, and the sheer _presence_ of the rock star—but sitting here like this, Arthur was struck by how similar their bodies really were; Curt was no wider or more muscular than he was, even though he was so much older.  The way he was crying onto Arthur’s shoulder like a child only made the disconnect more powerful, as if their positions were reversed, and Arthur was the adult.

            By the time Curt finally ran out of tears, they had been pressed up together for so long that Arthur’s chest was stung by the bitter cold of the air when they parted.  Even Curt shivered a bit, and tried to make putting his jacket back on into a weak joke.

            While Arthur was putting his shirt back on and looking for the blouse he had discarded the night before, Curt lit up another cigarette.  When Arthur, fully dressed again, went over to join him, Curt seemed much more relaxed.  “Can I ask you something?” Arthur asked as he sat down next to Curt.

            Curt nodded, but didn’t say anything.

            Arthur knew he shouldn’t ask this—it would only open up the wounds again, after they’d so recently been bound—but it had been bothering him for almost a year now.  “Why didn’t you go to the funeral?”

            Curt let out a large lungful of smoke.  “I was going to, but Mandy said I shouldn’t.”

            “Did his parents object to the idea of you being there?”  That had been Ray’s theory as to why Curt hadn’t seen Brian to his final resting place.

            “Probably,” Curt said, with a grim chuckle, “but that wasn’t why.  It was because of what they did to him.”  Curt’s lips curled downward into a vicious scowl.  “Wearing a boring black tux, made up like any waxy corpse…Brian wouldn’t want anyone to see him like that.”  He let out a soft sigh.  “Mandy thought he especially wouldn’t want me to see him that way.”

            “I’m sure she was right,” Arthur agreed.

            Curt nodded.  “She was so upset by what they’d done to him that she could barely speak.  It was as though his own parents wanted to erase everything he’d been, pretend their son had been someone else, someone as boring as they are.”

            “Seems like everyone’s parents want that.  To force us into their mould, even if it breaks us.”

            Curt glanced over at him.  “You, too?”

            Arthur nodded.  “My father…he didn’t even want to understand me.”  He shrugged.  “Compared to Lord Henry beatin’ his son to death, what my father did was mild.  But I still couldn’t stay there…”

            “I wonder what it’s like to be accepted by your family,” Curt sighed, then shook his head with a little laugh.  “Not that I’d have wanted _my_ family to accept me.  They were…God, I hated them.  But I guess I only hated them because they hated me first.”  Curt turned his head to give Arthur a piercing look.  “You said it was just your old man?”

            “My brother hates me, too.  Called me disgusting just for buyin’ one of Brian’s records.”  Arthur let out a deep sigh.  It would have been one thing if Nigel had only said that because he’d guessed what Arthur was really like, but he had a feeling that wasn’t it.  “My mum’s the only one who wasn’t against me.  I…not long after Brian was killed, I sent her a letter to let her know I was all right.  Sent it by way of one of her friends, so my father couldn’t intercept it.”

            “She ever write back?”

            Arthur nodded.  “Once in a while.  She said she can’t write often, because she doesn’t want my father finding out.  He’d never let her stay in contact with me if he knew.”

            “Let her?” Curt repeated.  “What is she, his slave?”

            “Might as well be, as far as he’s concerned.  The only good thing that can be said about him is that he’ll probably die of a heart attack by the time he’s fifty.”

            “Fuck.”  Curt let out a low chuckle.  “Sounds like my old man.  Only probably less violent.  Does yours ever go out hunting while he’s stinking drunk?”

            “He’s never touched a gun at all, as far as I know.  Doesn’t usually drink, either.  Too much risk of ‘aving fun if he were to drink.”

            Curt laughed.  “Okay, so he’s better than mine, then.  Just maybe not by very much.”

            Arthur smiled, but he wasn’t sure what to say—if he could say anything at all.  Having this quiet, intimate conversation with Curt was amazing, but he really didn’t want to waste it on talking about his family.

            They sat there in silence for several minutes, Curt smoking and Arthur just watching him, until the snow started to get a little heavier.  “We should probably go inside,” Curt said, glancing up at the snow.  “Frostbite’s a bitch.”  He put out his cigarette and got to his feet, then offered Arthur a hand to help him up.

            “What are you plannin’ to do now?” Arthur asked, after he was on his feet.  “Are you stayin’ in London?”

            Curt shrugged.  “Jack and I might do a tour for our album.  Or we might not.  Depends on the negotiations.”

            “Um…”

            “What?”  Curt was smiling at him with such a gentle look on his face, as if they were equals, or even friends, instead of a rock god and his adoring fan.

            “I…I was wonderin’ if…maybe…there was any chance…of seein’ you again…”  Every word didn’t want to pass through his lips.  Asking that question raised the terrible certainty of rejection.

            Curt’s smile widened, and he ruffled up Arthur’s hair.  “Maybe, if I stick around for a while.  Do you have a place of your own?”

            Arthur shook his head.  “I’m stayin’ with the Flaming Creatures,” he explained.  “I, um, do all sorts of, uh, odd jobs for them, and…er…”

            Curt laughed.  “No wonder you’re so skilled!”

            Arthur’s face grew so hot that it was probably melting the snow.

            “C’mon,” Curt said, taking Arthur’s hand.  “I’ll buy you some breakfast, and you can give me your number while we eat.”

            Arthur nodded eagerly, and they left the roof together.


End file.
